SixtySix
by Henry Fisher
Summary: A written account of one of the recordings of the past Hunger Games. Typically used as a training module for Training Centers in the Career districts.
1. Chapter 1

The hovercraft caressed the great gray helipad. The twenty-four children inside were breathing heavily, merely quivering, or stoic in shock. Adrenaline had not taken hold. Each tribute waited for the moment where they would be escorted into the underground chambers, something that they had witnessed in the Capitol-mandated circus many a year.

On an ill-meaning cue, the twenty-four were hushed by apathetic hands, quick-tied blindfolds, and the clink of sophisticated wrist restraints. Each was escorted to a small metal pedestal on the rim of the pad and instructed to await further instructions. The tinny announcer's voice boomed like an angry God.

"TRIBUTES WILL REMOVE THEIR RESTRAINTS IN TEN SECONDS. THE COUNTDOWN WILL THEN BEGIN."

The ten seconds passed and the cuffs dropped off like old skin. Each tribute ripped off the blindfold to assess their competition. The scores of glares that shot across the field were wordless, cold, and zealous. The timer started at forty seconds.

A slender boy with deep brown skin and bottomless black eyes glanced at a giant girl with flowing, curled red hair and spiteful lips. The female tribute with loud curves and caramel skin surveyed the male tribute with high cheekbones and hair dark as sin. Two blue-eyed boys and two green-eyed girls made immediate, knowing contact. The other twenty were far from surprised.

"TWELVE."

Sinew pulsed and nerves came to life. Adrenaline flowed like dark intentions through the twenty-four to-be-dead.

"NINE."

The tributes tried to make sense of their limited scope of the arena. Little was visible, save for an expanse of leaves beneath the pad and the endless reach of cornflower blue sky.

"FIVE."

The Cornucopia materialized in the dead center of the pad where the hovercraft had been. It was gorgeous – a vision of tightly coiled gold wire that boasted a bounty of advantageous supplies and an omen of bloodbath.

"FOUR."

A small female tribute with short brown hair was beginning to quiver. She had started to panic when the hovercraft landed – a blue-eyed boy smirked - his first target. The little tribute looked at the ground as her bottom jaw dropped a bit, like a confused dog or dead fish.

All the other tributes could hear was a terrible rip, the unfortunate shriek of the landmine, and the ominous thud of the customary cannon. The second the little tribute tapped her foot to the ground before the start, she was swiftly eliminated, as is tradition.

Her profile was projected onto the arena screen – Whae, Discrict 9 – to little attention from the distracted tributes.

The starting bell rang dimly over the cacophony, and the lucky tributes quickly scampered into the unknown below. The four allies acted as their academy had taught them and bounded for the expanse of supplies at the bosom of the Cornucopia. The others were still shaking on their platforms, hopelessly undone by tinnitus. Easy enough for the green-eyed girl with porcelain skin from District 2 – four young tributes were impaled by well-placed harpoons within thirty seconds. The tributes from District 1 – a blue-eyed boy and a green-eyed girl – went through the remaining tributes, hacking away at those who missed some crucial nanoseconds. The other blue-eyed boy who had shock-blonde hair saw a male tribute shaking in the wind, tears lining his lips. Disgusting. He scoffed, grabbed some supplies, and followed the group into the brush – unlike his compatriots, he found easy prey demeaning.

—END PART ONE—


	2. Chapter 2

The boy from District 3 slid unnoticed into the brush at the end of the countdown, just after the girl from 9 met her end. The branches descended from the bottom of the helipad into the arena below. Its leaves were green as innocence with dark, formulaic branches that jutted into every direction. All he could make out were the dim points of light from the arena above. He could feel the thud of the newly killed bodies – he made out at least five, maybe more. He deftly continued through the endless shrub, trying to avoid the apathetic scratches from some of the smaller twigs.

He was 15 years old with an honest hazel gaze and wispy brown hair. His skin was very pale, as was custom for most of District 3, due to their affinity for factory work. He had a wonderful ingenuity that was his best feature – if he had not been chosen for the Games, he would have been selected for a high-ranking position in the District's endless rows of factories.

He lived with his father and grandmother– his mother had left under questionable circumstances. However, he always enjoyed living at home – he enjoyed absorbing his grandmother's countless stories over a plate of his father's meticulous cooking, which was deliriously good compared to the normally microwaved, enzyme-fortified selection from most District 3 homes.

The hours seemed to plod on – the boy had grown tired of the endless foliage, but he knew that he needed to weather the first few days by living in isolation – his best bet would be to strike at his opponents when they were at their weakest. He gently placed his foot on yet another branch in an endless field of lumber when he felt a few light vibrations.

The boy saw the source of the buzzing – an amorphous light tan blob that was almost lost in the midst of green and black – tracker-jackers. He had read about them when he was younger – how the Capitol bred them for defense purposes, and how their venom was far more lethal than anything Mother Nature could concoct. He gently sidled eastward to leave the buzzers for someone less suspecting.

His mind wandered back to the reaping. The escort for District 3 was less than pleasant: a squat woman named Vanaire in her late thirties with a considerable gut, gray hair, and a stern countenance. He always dreaded the rock in his stomach that would promptly arrive on each Reaping Day. He had vaguely known the last female tribute from his district – a 14 year-old with short, curly, blond hair and an out-of-place strut before she had met her death in the opening moments of the last Games. This year; however, the boy was a bit out of place when the irritable Vanaire squawked his name:

"BEYSER FELD."

Honestly, Beyser lost most of the recollection of the rest of the day afterwards. Trauma and nausea have a curious relationship with memory. However, he would always remember his shaky walk to the steps of the stage as his hearing aids felt like they would drag his head to the floor.

—END PART TWO—


	3. Chapter 3

NOTE: This is a part in an ongoing fanfiction based on Suzanne Collins' _The Hunger Games_. In order for the story to make more sense, PLEASE click on the 'Chapters' link in the heading of this blog so you can follow the story chronologically. Thanks!

A terrible rip. The unfortunate shriek of a landmine. The ominous thud of the customary cannon. And the ringing. The ringing. The ringing.

A persistent, irritating tone racked the boy's head. The leftover smoke and debris from the mine was mottle gray-green-brown and thick as fear. The boy from District 9 was concerned – everything was beginning to fall apart.

He could discern the slash of shaped metal, the fall of dead tributes' bodies, and the gentle, measure pattern of Careers' feet across the sheer pad. At this point, he assumed defeat. He could barely see or hear anything and could only await a well-timed tribute to decapitate him.

The blue-eyed boy with the shock blonde hair approached the last tribute from District 9. The Career looked at the boy with a sneer. The boy could smell the Career's breath near him – people from District 4 always carried a lightly distinct seaside smell. Thoughts wheeled in the boy's head, and then tears began to run down his cheeks. His face contorted into a grimace. The male tribute from District 4 sneered at the spectacle and followed the others into the arena. The captive opened his eyes. He was the last on the field, save for the ravaged Cornucopia and the bodies of his fellow competitors. He saw Whae's knotted twine necklace to his right: a shattered, well-worn memory on the unforgiving sheen of the helipad. He sneered at the trinket – suicide was her worst option. He dismounted the platform.

While he would have liked a better way to enter the games, Chath was relieved that sobbing was a way to save his life. He knew it was a risk, but like most of his risks, they ended well. He walked toward the Cornucopia in the midst of the pad to gather what remnants occurred. One meager pack remained in the furthest nook of the golden horn, and one weapon lay mounted on the horn's back wall: a simple silver sickle. He smiled – the Gamemakers must have enjoyed his charade with the dartboard at the evaluation. He wrapped his fingers around the oddly familiar handle and slid into the brush.

—END OF PART THREE—


End file.
